Use Me, Abuse Me
by The Incorrigible Ammy
Summary: Alfred only wants someone to love him, after all. Warnings will be added as needed.
1. Love

My name is Alfred F. Jones. Nineteen. I love the United States of America, hamburgers, freedom of speech, and a good glass of Coca-Cola. No ice. That dilutes the taste.

My mother would say I'm a good kid. My father just grunts in appreciation when I do good. I have to do good; I'm the hero. That doesn't mean I'm a nice person, just a _good_ person.

Like everyone else, I want to be loved.

I'm nineteen. I'm taking a short break from school- nothing major. I just want to explore my beloved country a bit, get a job, earn some money so that my family doesn't have to pay quite so much. You know?

I suppose that I'm still working out who I really am. What's my dream? What's my orientation? I love a good party. It's what keeps me sane. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, right? Or rather, Alfred.

Not that people don't think I'm stupid. I get good grades, but I don't care for reading the mood. I could, if I wanted to. I _could_ think about what I say before I piss off my friends, but it's more amusing this way, don't you think?

They also think I'm fat. I may be. I certainly eat a lot. But hey, Diet Coke works everything out, right? And for what it doesn't cure, there's always a rigorous training regime. That sure burns the fat right off. So it's no wonder why people don't want me to punch them, or go up against me in football. Someone can only beat me if I want them to, if I _let_ them to. I'm in a very good position, there.

I'm nineteen and I just want to be loved. I have a good list of friends. There's Arthur, who, despite only being a few years older than me, basically helped raise me when my father disappeared. Turns out, we all got separated at an airport, and since he made a habit of never carrying a phone... We all lost contact. He didn't carry a phone, so he didn't bother with phone numbers. It was complicated. It was stupid, is what it was. I have Francis, who also helped raise me, though he's always been a bit touchy-feely. Then there's my twin Matthew, who, while not very noticeable, is better than me in a myriad of ways. Because he isn't noticed, he has a certain amount of freedom that I don't have.

At least, that's how I perceive things.

My childhood wasn't traumatic at all besides the sudden absence of my father. It was really very good, after all. I had a loving mother, a sweet twin, and a group of friends. I excelled in sports. I did decent in school. I tried to be nice; I rebelled majorly when I hit seventeen, but that was to be expected, after all.

I'm a good kid. What I do in the dark is only for the best of intentions. Still, my hand shakes, the gun gripped either too hard or too lose. I'm a good kid. It's all for the sake of love.

I want someone to love me, to need me. I want to be their knight in shining armour, I want them to _adore_ me. That's why I'm in Europe. I'll bring them to the U.S. Soon, don't worry. If they really love me.

I've gone through so many like them, like him. I'm holding out, see. I won't give my services to someone who loves me; at least, not the full extent.

For the time being, use me. Abuse me. Anything. Just _need me._

Please? It's not that hard. I'm a very loveable person. That's what I hope. I can be even more loveable, though, if you want me.

Come on. I'll ask only once more. Second time's the charm- if you hesitate, then you don't deserve a third chance. You need to be prompt in answering, right? So, come on. Love me?

_Pretty please?_


	2. Whoops

I'm Alfred F. Jones. I've just graduated from high school; literally, I'm crawling out of bed at noon after a full night of congratulatory partying, not even the slightest hungover. I've always found it's difficult to get me drunk.

My parents don't know. Papa would skin me alive.

They greet me with raised eyebrows as I slouch into the kitchen. Mother grunts a 'Stand up straight, Alfie, dear'- very halfhearted, since she knows I was out late. I just nod, accepting the cup of coffee and plate of bacon with a small smile. My mother's so nice to me. She probably knows I drink occasionally. Papa just snorts, muttering something about slackers and lazy teens. It's his way.

Arthur's called, it seems. I find out as I check my phone. He's also texted. They start out nice- 'Want to hang out later?'- but quickly delve into vulgar- 'Fucking wanker, answer me!' Strange. Maybe he didn't drink much.

Then I remember Arthur wasn't at the party. My bad.

I dial the number, softly humming a song I'd heard on the radio. It's a rap. I happen to enjoy rap; something about the energy that it seems to require is infectious. I'm a very energetic person, I like to think.

He picks up, immediately yelling at me. "Six hours! I've been trying to contact you twat for six! Bloody! Hours!"

"Artie, I was sleepin' last night off."

He calms quickly- I promise to taste his latest recipe, even though mentally I'm gagging. I was practically raised on their scones, so I never get sick. They do, however, taste foul. I used to have a pet mouse. We tried to feed it a scone, Matthew and I did. Mice eat everything right? It refused to go within ten inches of the horrid thing.

We make plans to meet in an hour. I hang up just as I think my brother enters. I don't look up to greet him; he comes and goes as he pleases. Mostly, he stays near me. I like to pretend it isn't because I notice him the most.

Mattie, as I prefer to call him- easier on the tongue, and I'm all for the shortcuts- fetches me my wallet and car keys on command. For my graduation and nineteenth birthday- even though, right now, I'm only eighteen- my parents got me a car. I think it was my father's idea. He's been seeming regretful that he missed most of my life out of his sheer stubbornness and reluctance to accept technology. He has a phone now. We never talk on it together.

I slurp down my coffee, practically cram all the bacon into my mouth with one hand. I can open my mouth real wide. It's talent, really; practiced it for several years. Now I can jam a whole hamburger down my gullet in one mouthful.

With room to spare for the shake. I've been told it's a little comical, a little ridiculous.

It's a record, how quickly I finish my food, although the mingling taste of coffee and bacon leaves much to be desired. I dump my dishes into the sink ("Mattie! Mind washin' these fer me?") and dart out the door. If they want to know where I'm going, they can call. Or text.

It may seem a little negligent, but it's our way.

As I'm driving, tapping my fingers against the steering wheel blissfully, it hits me that I'm a little alone. No one to love me. Well, that was fine. I shrug off the feeling like I always do, with a warm smile and a laugh, returning to tapping out the beat of the newest song on the radio against the wheel. It's not rap, but it's good enough. I can almost understand the words, thanks to my friend Kiku.

"_I'm sorry for being alive"_

_A habit I keep on saying_

It's definitely a new song, even if that's about all I bother to understand. I don't care. It doesn't pertain to me.

What pertains to me is Arthur's slight smile as I park my car, jumping neatly out of the seat to stand next to him. He scowls, then, pretending that he _hasn't_ been smiling at me. I know better. I'm his friend.

Our hours spent together are therapeutic, even though we bicker when it comes to just about everything. It's fine. It's our routine, after all. I rub his shoulder, he goes red in the face and elbows me. It dissolves into an out-and-out fight, though really we're just shoving each other back and forth.

That event lands in disaster; going easy on him, I fall, smacking my elbow against the curb particularly hard. The bigger they are, the harder they fall, right? And that very much applies to me right at that moment. I nearly black out from pain, gagging, the world going white before my eyes. Everything's a blur, from Arthur's panicking, to the numb realization I'd hurt myself rather badly.

As soon as I can, once I'm done crying (_like a little bitch, no less_) out in agony, I struggle to stand up, laughing it off as best as I can. "It's nothin', Artie!" I say, trying to put on a bold face. I stand up, clutching my arm without hurting it, which proves to be impossible. I want to kill him at that moment, I realize. Even though it was an accident, I want to wrap my fingers around his neck and squeeze.

I shrug it off as I shrug everything off, allowing him to drag me to the hospital. I want to vomit. I want to scream. I want to do something other than smile, and laugh, and joke with the woman directing us to where I need to go when it comes to broken arms.

Bottling feelings is bad for you. Are? Who knows. I can't think of proper grammar. All I know is that the pain becomes too intense, especially as I refuse to let it out; someone rather rudely bumping into my side, _hard_, is what does it, however.

I screech, the pain overwhelms me, and I black out.

* * *

**A/N-**

I don't know, how am I doing on this? I do have a plot going on, trust me; I'm just trying to get rid of any Early Installment Weirdness as fast as I can. I will admit though, two reviews in just a few days? Sweeeeeet. Pretty pleased right there.


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